


The one where Crocodile's table manners are called into question

by huffspuffsblows



Category: One Piece
Genre: Implied Relationships, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 20:46:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2706173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/huffspuffsblows/pseuds/huffspuffsblows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miss All Sunday is Too Good for Crocodile's Shit.</p><p>Or, that one time Crocodile gets a certain pain in the ass visitor and Robin calls him out on his "eating" habits.<br/>Or-- Robin Observes Crocodile's Type.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one where Crocodile's table manners are called into question

**Author's Note:**

> First OP fic  
> tries not to heave  
> This takes place pre-Alabasta arc. The fluctuation between Miss All Sunday/Robin and Crocodile/Mr. Zero is intentional.

Even years established as the hero of Alabasta, the knight in shining hook and wisps of smoke puffed from that sour mouth like a signal fire for the troops, Miss All Sunday still finds the childlike admiration coupled with honest-to-god fear her partner instills, amusing. With a trembling smile and a nod, a particular employee [an old man with sharp eyes to spot approaching enemies from beyond in the distance, enough to spot his wife, a real heavy hitter, streets away] hands her the latest stock report before dashing back to the slot machines. Ah, he must have heard the boss didn't want to be disturbed these past two days on penalty of being the guest of honor at a rather unentertaining feast. Thus, as always, it's up to her. Miss All Sunday doesn't mind, however; logically she would be the best person to interrupt him. 

[it must be the charcoal black karma, a voice whispers in the depths of her mind, only to be smothered with sheer will, back ram-rid straight, shoulders back, chin held high, quirk at the corner of her mouth in place]

The door to his office is shut tightly, yet not locked. As regal and indulgent as Mr. O is, the man has an almost paranoid knack for contingency plans. He wouldn't be able to double as a "hero" and the boss of a secret organization if that wasn't the case. Undisturbed, but available if need be, [if you dare face his gaping maw] what a feat. When Miss All Sunday turns the doorknob and pushes the door open [no ominous _creeeeeeeak_ follows, perish the thought of neglectful maintenance] he isn't sitting at his desk, smoke floating above his head and papers crushed between thick fingers, glower hard enough to burn holes. When her gaze is drawn to the open window at the far wall, the sight of him looming over the city from his vantage point, smug from the tilt of his chin to the the glow of those pale eyes, isn't what she sees, either. 

Her initial observation is filled with pink. Lots and lots of pink. Pink and blonde which isn't all that surprising. [she knows despite his natural lackluster disposition, the man works hard and the thought of him playing hard is just as funny as it is sickening; being the scholar she is, Robin files this away for later] The real question of whether or not knowledge of his type will benefit her in the long run is more or less up in the air the moment the [tall as hell, towering over the looming Shichibukai himself, pink and blonde] visitor leans into the hero of the city, face mostly hidden aside from pink feathers teased by the wind and short blonde hair, opens their mouth and--

"I look forward to making you scream next time, my Croc." 

Crocodile remains silent, the only sound that leaves him are teeth weathering the cigar wrapper, the hiss of smoke from the corner of his mouth, downturned, Robin can just picture it even with his back to her. The stranger laughs. All she can see, blocked by Crocodile's broad back and shoulders [which are pulled just the slightest bit taunt, tell-tale from years watching that back], are bony elbows pointed towards the ceiling so she can only deduce his hands are on the other man's face. 

[a gesture she can't see: thick fingers skim across tight, jagged skin, nails find the seam of that scar and _dig_ insistently, as if to tear the other man open to fill him with his own purpose]

"You gonna miss me that much? I just love your pouting face. C'mon, give me a kiss goodbye." 

The royal Shichibukai promptly shoves the man one handed out of the window to plummet to his death. He laughs all the way down [not _dereshishishi_ ; the sound the man makes is deep and jarring and the shiver up her spine is anything but pleasant, it's like inky black, _black_ darkness that swallows everything whole, doesn't even spit out the bones, uses those up too-] and Crocodile plucks the cigar from his teeth, taps the ash against the sill, then turns to look at her blankly.

[oh but she knows, just like the second eyelid of his namesake flicks open and closed to protect vision, that blank gaze sweeps over her knowingly, calculating]

[but this predator isn't hungry for anything other than power at the moment]

[if the raven is a harbinger of death, what is she?]

"What do you want." She finds it incredibly difficult not to stare at the red marks blossoming along the curve of his jaw, the trail continues, sloppily and still with a sheen of spit, beneath the collar of his shirt.

Robin schools her expression, ensures he can't see underneath the underneath before striding over to his side, papers offered. "That report came in. The numbers seem to have risen, as you predicted." 

"Of course they are. The one good thing about little men in that line of work is their dedication to crawl and clamor. What they don't know is they'll never see forty percent of that. Useful tools, those ones," His tone is flat and disinterested, further proven by his attention narrowed on the papers in hand. When he doesn't speak further, Robin takes that as a dismissal and turns to go. 

"Oh, one more thing, Mr. Zero." A grunt serving as her cue to continue, she does so. "Next time you might consider laying a tarp out before you make such a mess. Playing with your food is so like you." Fixing a smirk over one shoulder at her partner, who keeps his gaze on the papers but does afford an eyeroll, Miss All Sunday sashays out of the office.

[when the door shuts behind her and her shoulders slump against the wood, a moment of peace before dealing with whatever mess he left below, Robin swears she can still hear laughter and a deep, deep voice that sends the chill of darkness across her arms and up her spine--

"She's a saucy one, but she hasn't seen your table manners at their worst. Too bad we've only got reservations for two--"

There's a slam, the pane of glass and the very window sill itself shudders from the assault.

A muffled-- "I'm so touched you don't want to share either. That makes this easy."

"Break it and I'll gut you starting with that _beak_ of yours." Decidedly growled through grit teeth.]


End file.
